This Text file is old! In a 🏛️Museum, an unsorted archive of (user-)pages. (Saved from Geocities in Oct-2009. The archival story: oocities.org)
--------------------------------------- (To 🚫report any bad content: archivehelp @ gmail.com)

Disclaimers:  Characters belong to Aaron Sorkin, not 
to me. 
Classification:  I think this series went completely 
Alternate Universe long ago - although I'm trying to 
stick as close to Pre-Noel canon as possible 
Spoilers:  Anything could pop up.
Rating: PG-14 for graphic images	
Synopsis:  "When this is ended, I will be one of them 
-- a woman who's done her work and givenn her all."
Series:  This story is the fifty-third in the 'Rocky 
Path' series.

Author's Notes:  At last!  I'm serious; I must hear 
feedback on this one.  Also, thanks Mary for the 
eleventh hour beta-read.  And to Beth, whose 
supportive comments and constructive criticisms helped 
shape the outcome of this story.


A Woman's Work
By Lacy



Sixty years ago, when the Japanese attacked Pearl 
Harbor, they sunk a battleship.  The USS Arizona, to 
be precise.

One thousand, one hundred, and seventy-seven men went 
down with the ship.

For half a century the steel coffin languished in its 
watery grave, until time and pressure eroded its hull 
and oil began to leak into the precious Hawaiian 
ecosystem

Despite the ships status as memorial to lives lost in 
the attack, and aboard ship, Congressman Lani, along 
with his colleagues, and countless constituents, 
spearheaded an effort to clean up the environment and 
raise the Arizona from its murky depths.  It's time to 
put the past behind us and take care of our future.

Three years ago, a hurricane smashed into the east 
coast, severely damaging a Naval fleet stationed in 
Norfolk.  The outcome was tragic, but not 
catastrophic, and the decision to send the fleet into 
the Atlantic, as a protective measure, was the 
Administration's.  So, when the Navy commissioned a 
new ship, Congress, perhaps in an effort to rub his 
guilt in the President's face, passed the measure 
and bankrolled the commission.

When the fleet limped back into Norfolk, minus one 
tender ship, it was discovered that the most severely 
damaged ship had not been based in Norfolk, but had 
been temporarily decommissioned while repairs were 
being made.  The repairs were never completed and the 
damage was worse than before.

So, it was decided by the SecNav and Admiral 
Fitzwallace, that the newly commissioned ship would be 
stationed in Pearl Harbor, to replace the battleship 
damaged by the storm.

The completion of the state of the art battleship came 
on the heels of the decision to raise the Arizona.  
And the introduction of the Childcare Bill into 
committee came just as the schedule for the raising of 
the Arizona, and the dedication of the USS Infamy, was 
being finalized.

It's all about timing.

You know what they say about bad things coming in 
threes.  A triangulation of events beyond my control 
has taken my husband away from me and sent him halfway 
around the world.

"No, Phillip," I say into the phone, "you have to 
order him to sleep.  If he won't listen to you, then 
you have to throw him on the bed and.."

"I'm sure that works for you, Donna, but I'm thinking 
Josh would fire me for that."

One of the many things Phillip and I have in common is 
that we both think my husband is hot.  Yeah, you heard 
me right.

"He can be very stubborn," I reply.

"This isn't news to me.  He's walking around like a 
bear on the rampage, Donna.  He wants to go home.  He 
didn't think the Congressman would put up such a 
fight, and now that we're in Oahu, the Congressman's 
time is too limited.  He's not at our mercy anymore."

"He's a Congressman," I snort.  "Of course, he's at 
our mercy.  Do whatever you can to get Josh another 
meeting.  Use threats if you have to."

"I don't know," he wavers.  "I'm just an assistant.  
What kind of threats can I make?"

"Never say you're just an assistant, Phillip.  
Assistants make governments go 'round.  Tell the 
Congressman if he won't make time for Josh, you might 
be inclined to lose his messages the next time he 
calls.  You'd be surprised at how quickly they fall 
into line with that one."

"I'm going to lose my job," he squeaks.

"Don't be a baby, Phillip.  You can do this.  What's 
Josh doing now?" I change the subject.

"Briefing the President."

"Okay.  Is Josh going to the dedication ceremony?"

"Mmm-hmm," Phillip replies.  "He's hoping to catch the 
Congressman unawares."

"That's my Josh," I smile.  "No one's better at the 
hit-and-run."

"Sorry, Donna," Phillips sighs.

"For what?"

"I've had to make and cancel three separate 
reservations for Josh.  It looks like he'll be flying 
home with the rest of us."

"Stop apologizing, it's not your fault.  Lani's just 
got a big old stick up his butt."

"I have to run," he says.  "Thanks for the advice.  
I'll make sure Josh calls before takeoff, but I don't 
think he'll need the reminder."

"Thanks," I tell him.  "Good luck."

The look on my face when I hang up the phone must be 
dead giveaway, because Carol's voice interrupts my 
brooding.

"Still sulking, Donna?"

"My husband's in Hawaii, where I've always wanted to 
go, and I'm stuck here.  What's there to sulk about?"

"We can always commiserate together," she suggests, 
with an empathetic smile.  "If I hadn't eaten that bad 
crab I'd be in Hawaii myself."

"You're looking better by the way," I offer, 
remembering the times I wasn't able to tear myself 
away from porcelain altar. 

"It's all out of my system," she answers.  "Too 
little, too late.  How are you feeling?  Other than 
depressed and moody, I mean."

"Am I that obvious?"

"Are you kidding?  You haven't noticed everyone giving 
you a wide berth?"

"I guess I missed that."  Answering her original 
question, I tell her, "My feet hurt.  My back hurts.  
Everything just...hurts.  I want my old body back."

"Just a few more weeks," she encourages.

"God, I hope this baby comes on time.  I don't think I 
could hang in there if he decides to take his sweet 
time about it.  Of course, this is Josh's son we're 
talking about, and if he takes after his father, my 
schedule will get all blown to hell."

"Well," Carol sighs, "we wanted to give you a baby 
shower this week, but CJ and I were supposed to be in 
Hawaii, so it has to wait until Monday."

"I know," I tell her.  "It's one of the things I'm 
looking forward to.  It's written down on my calendar 
in big red letters."  I flip back to October and show 
her the red words that mark October 15.  "As you can 
see, I'm counting the days."

"Two big parties in less than a year.  That's it, 
Donna.  Don't expect anything for your birthday."  I 
give her my best pout and she laughs.  "Well, maybe 
I'll babysit so you can have a night out. I'm sure 
you'll need it," she relents.

"Can I get that in writing?"

"Sure," Carol's face scrunches up as she peers down at 
me, "but...Donna?"  She points at my chest.

I glance down to see two giant wet spots spreading 
across my blouse.  I had forgotten to wear my heavy 
nursing bra this morning; it just felt so bulky.  My 
milk is letting down, successfully ruining my silk 
shirt.  And never before has there ever been quite 
this much.  I cover my chest with my arms, my face 
flushing with embarrassment.

"Oh my God!" I say.

"Do you need help?" Carol asks.

"No," I tell her.  "It's fine.  I'm leaving as soon as 
Josh calls, anyway.  I'll just put my jacket on after 
I clean up in the bathroom."

"Okay.  Let me know if you need anything."

"I will."

"I'll see you later," Carol says.  "I have to go over 
the wires and fax them to CJ."

"Okay."

****

"Go home."

The voice, traveling more than five thousand miles, is 
the sound of vocal cords thick with too much caffeine 
and not enough sleep.  "Have you slept?"

"Have you?"

"The bed's empty.  I'm fine."

"We're taking off in half an hour."

"Which means you'll actually be taking off in two 
hours," I translate.

"Yeah.  Go home, Donna."

"I just have to finish these numbers and put them on 
the President's desk.  Then I'll go home, I promise."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Can't wait.  Did you get Lani?"

"I wore him down.  I love you."

"Love you, too.  See you tomorrow."

"Gotta go," he finishes, and I'm left holding a dead 
line.

It's after eight and I've been working on these 
childcare numbers and research all day.  I put the 
finishing touches on the spreadsheets and explanations 
just before Josh called, and the printer has been 
busily spitting out pages for twenty minutes.

I'm dead on my feet as I trudge through the West Wing 
to the Oval Office.  I'm surprised to find Mrs. 
Landingham still manning her post like a gentle but 
dedicated sentry.

"Donna, honey, are you still here?"

"I was just about to ask you the same thing."

"You should be at home, dear, you need to get off your 
feet."

"My feet heartily agree, Mrs. Landingham.  I needed to 
finish this though." I hold the binder up.  "I'll just 
put it on the President's desk and then I and my feet 
are going home to fall into bed."

"Go on, dear."

"Thank you."

I set the binder in the center of the mahogany desk 
before realizing that I've forgotten to place a note 
on the front.  I grab the notepad, placed neatly at 
the head of the desk, and a pen from the caddy and jot 
a quick note on the binder and its contents.  As I 
stand erect after signing the note, I arch my back to 
ease the ever-present kinks in my lower spine and 
between my shoulder blades.

My spine crackles, and suddenly there's a gush of 
water spilling down my legs onto the plush 
presidential carpet of the Oval Office.  I look down 
to see my skirt clinging wetly to my legs, and my feet 
centered in a puddle of what can only be amniotic 
fluid.  'Great,' I think, 'now the whole outfit is 
ruined.'

"Mrs. Landingham!"  I can hear the panic shaking in my 
voice, and I make a conscious effort to take a deep 
breath, but it does nothing to quell the quickly 
building fear in my chest.  "Mrs. Landingham!"

"Donna?" she rushes to the door.

Her eyes travel to the spreading wet spot on the 
carpet, before leaping up to meet my terrified stare.  
"I think my water's broken."

I expect her to rush to the phone to call 911, but she 
simply smiles sweetly and replies, "It would seem so, 
dear."

"Mrs. Landingham, have you seen--?"  Just then Sam 
breezes into the reception area, and comes to 
screeching halt.  "Donna?"

"Her water's broken, Sam," Mrs. Landingham announces.  
"Be a dear and call the First Lady, she's in the 
Residence.  When you've done that call the hospital 
and let them know we're on the way.  They'll page 
Donna's doctor."

Sam stands there, dumbfounded by the sight of me 
standing in a puddle in the Oval Office.

"Go now, Sam!"

Never, in the entire time I've known her, have I ever 
heard Delores Landingham raise her voice.  Sam, too, 
is shocked, which works in my favor because he shakes 
off his alarm and kicks into action.  He spins around 
and picks up the phone on Charlie's desk.

"Are you having contractions, Donna?" Mrs. Landingham 
asks, crossing the room to me.

"I don't know," I answer, my voice shaking.  "I don't 
think so."

"Has your back been hurting?"

"Twinges, all day long."

"You've been having contractions," she declares.

"I'm sorry about the carpet."  With a million things 
running through my mind, it's the only thing I can 
think of to say.

"Don't you worry about that, dear."

"Do you think the President will be mad?"

"Don't be silly, Donna.  Now, why don't you have a 
seat."  She takes my arm and leads to me to the 
closest chair.

"I can't," I tell her, my voice quaking.  I can feel 
my eyes welling up.  "I'll ruin the upholstery.

"Do you think you can make it to the reception area?"

"Y-Yes."

"Very well then."

"Dr. Bartlet is on her way downstairs." Sam hangs up 
the phone and rushes over to assist me to a chair.  "I 
called the hospital, too."

"Thank you, Sam," Mrs. Landingham says.

Sitting in the chair, looking down at my soaking dress 
and feeling the wetness between my legs, it occurs to 
me that all of this real.  I'm not dreaming, and 
there's no waking up this time.

"It's too soon," I choke, my eyes spilling over.  "The 
baby's not due for another three weeks.  It's too 
soon."  Sam's hand on my shoulder slips down to my 
upper back, stroking and comforting away the tension.

"It's just a little early, Donna. There's nothing to 
be worried about.  Why, my boys came six weeks ahead 
of schedule," Mrs. Landingham informs me.

"I'm not ready," I admit.

"Of course you are," she insists.  "You're doing 
fine."

"Okay," I breathe. "Okay, I'm doing fine."  

My first noticeable contraction hits me at just that 
moment, rippling through and around my belly.  The 
baby jumps inside me in response.  The movement is 
jarring and unexpected, because his movements for the 
last few days have been few and far between.  Normal, 
I was told, since space is a rare commodity in my 
womb.

The contraction deepens, clamping down on my uterus, 
and I double over in the chair.  "Ooooh!" the moan 
comes from deep in my chest and Sam jumps away from 
me, as though his hand on my back brought about the 
pain.

"What should I do?" he asks, fretfully.  "Isn't there 
something...anything I can do to help?"

"Just keep doing what you're doing, Sam?"  Abbey 
Bartlet appears at the door of the Oval Office, 
flanked by two secret service agents.  "How's the 
patient?"

The contraction eases off and I slump back into the 
chair, grateful that medical help has finally arrived.  
Maybe there's something she can do to put a stop to 
this.  Dr. Bartlet glances down at my soaking wet 
clothes and pronounces, "I'd say you're in the latent 
stage of labor."

"Can't we stop it?" I ask, breathlessly.

"No chance of that," she replies.  "Okay, boys," she 
turns to the agents, "let's get her to the hospital."

The agent on the left nods sharply and raises his 
wrist to his mouth.  "The Stork is delivering," he 
proclaims.  "This is not a drill.  I repeat...this is 
not a drill."

"The Stork?" I gasp, horrified.  "That's worse than 
Flamingo!  And drills?  There have been drills?"

No one bothers to answer and the next thing I know, 
I'm being pulled bodily from my chair and hustled into 
the hallway.  This irresistible push of events 
spinning out of control must be how the President 
feels when the agents determine there's been a 
security breech.

"Just stay calm, Ms. Moss," the deep voice of the 
agent on my left says.  He's practically lifting me 
off the ground with his hand beneath my underarm.

"I can walk," I tell him, shaking my arm loose from 
his punishing grip.

Just as he lets go another contraction hits, and to my 
suddenly breathless horror, this one is twice as 
powerful as the last.  "Uugghhhh!" I groan, when the 
pain reaches what absolutely must be its apex.  My 
knees give way and I'm falling helplessly forward, 
before a pair of strong arms stops my descent.  I'm 
saved from hitting the floor by the quick reflexes of 
one of the secret service agents beside me.  "Okay," I 
pant, as the pain subsides, and my vision begins to 
clear, "maybe a little help would be good."  He 
maneuvers my arm around his shoulders and wraps his 
arm around my lower back.  "Thank you."  My voice 
sounds raspy.

Voices are twittering around me, but I can't make 
heads or tails of them until the ringing in my ears 
fades away.

"At your service, ma'am," the agent, whose name I 
think might be Jesse, replies.  "Let's get you to the 
vehicle."

"Three minutes," I hear Sam decree.  "That was three 
minutes."

And in those three minutes our party has increased as 
word quickly spread that my water broke in the Oval 
Office.  Mrs. Landingham wastes no time taking the 
assistants, standing on the outskirts of the group, 
into hand.

"Donna, dear?" she asks as she follows the agents 
escorting me to the driveway.  "Is there a bag of 
things?  Something you readied for when you went into 
labor."

"In the c-car," I manage to reply.

"Bonnie, you get the bag and meet us at the hospital.  
Sam...you stay here and-"

"Can't, Mrs. Landingham," he finds the nerve to 
contradict her.  "I'm the only one here who's been to 
the classes with her."

"Very well," she nods.  "I'll stay here and coordinate 
the phones," she relents.

As we step outside, an intimidating black SUV 
screeches up to the carport, it's lights blaring.  The 
heavy doors are thrown open and with a rush I'm 
bundled into the back seat.  Dr. Bartlet, bellowing 
orders, climbs in beside me behind the driver's seat.  
Sam slides in on the other side, sandwiching me 
between them.

All these people rushing to my aid -- all this noise, 
and chaos, simply because my baby has decided to be 
born; and yet, the one person I need right now isn't 
here.  In fact, he's halfway around the world; unaware 
that the event he's been anticipating for months has 
already been set into motion.  

"Josh," I whisper, thinking of my husband, so far away 
from here.  Knowing that if he were beside me right 
now, he could ease the building panic inside of me.  I 
melt into the leather-upholstered seat of the 
Presidential motorcade vehicle, my hands massaging my 
belly, feeling the slight quivering of the muscles 
beneath my fingers.  "Someone has to call Josh."

"Mrs. Landingham will take care of that, Donna, don't 
worry," Dr. Bartlet answers breezily.

"I can't help it," I say.  "It wasn't supposed to 
happen this way."

She doesn't reply, but instead turns to the agent 
riding shotgun and inquires about the emergency 
advance team.  They had to send an advance team to the 
hospital just so the First Lady could accompany me to 
the hospital.

I'm thinking that's gonna make the papers.

****

My labor, which seemed to begin so rapidly, eased off 
after arriving at the hospital.  I pre-registered 
weeks ago so checking in was a formality, and shortly 
after I was wheeled to a private delivery room, where 
I've been for the last three hours.

My room has become the new Grand Central Station, with 
staffers and friends moving in an out.  The always 
well timed visits from the First Lady.  Bonnie brought 
my bag and stayed around to see me through a few 
contractions.  Ginger did the same.

When it starts to get too crowded, Dr. Bartlet will 
step in and hustle everyone out.  No has the nerve to 
complain about to her face.

Josh must know by now, I think.  Air Force One is 
flying over the Pacific with my husband on board.  He 
must be tearing the place apart.

My contractions are coming about ten minutes apart, 
and after the first few I've been able to brace myself 
for the pain.  Take a deep breath, relax every muscle 
I can control, and exhale through the pain.

At first, I curled up on the bed, whimpering as each 
contraction sliced through me, but Sam...sweet 
Sam...reminded me of the things I had learned in 
class.  Control the pain; don't let the pain control 
you.  I've moved to my feet since then, pacing about 
the room, in my hospital gown, hoping that staying 
mobile will take my mind off the coming hours.  
Sam...sweet, helpful Sam...is never out of arms reach.

"Hi!" a cheery voice interrupts, and we turn to the 
door.  A perky young woman, wearing cartoon scrubs, 
steps into the room.  It's Vicki, my OB nurse.  "How's 
everything going in here, Donna?"

"Fine," I say, just as yet another contraction hits.  
Placing my palms on the bed, I lean down and breathe 
deeply through my nose, and exhale through my mouth.

"Okay," Vicki replies, recognizing a contraction when 
she sees one.  "You remember your breathing.  That's 
good.  That's very good."  She turns to Sam.  "There 
are things that you can do to help her through this, 
Dad."

"Oh, I'm not-"

"He's not my husband," I grind out through the 
increasing pain.  "He's just a friend."

"Oh."

"Her husband is with the President.  They're on their 
way back from Hawaii."

"I see.  Well, then, since you're here and he's not, 
I'll just tell you.  You might try massaging her back 
between contractions."

"O-okay," he stammers.

"Are you timing the contractions?" she inquires.

He checks his watch and spouts, "eight minutes."

"Where's Dr. Burgess?" I ask, between breaths.  
"Shouldn't she be here by now?"

"I've spoken with the doctor, Donna.  She's asked me 
to call her when you reach five centimeters."

"How will we know that?" My fingers fist, bunching the 
sheets on the bed.

"That's what I'm here for," she replies.  "I need to 
examine you."

When the contraction passes, Vicki urges me onto the 
bed with a little help from Sam.  She positions my 
knees apart, before snapping on a pair of powdered 
latex gloves.  I close my eyes, blocking out the 
bright fluorescents and relishing the absence of 
stabbing pain, knowing all the while that it can't 
last long.

I open my eyes to find Sam standing at the foot of the 
bed watching intently as Vicki prepares to determine 
the extent of my dilation.  "Hey!" I shout, clamping 
my knees together.  "Get your ass back up here."

Sam starts at the harshness of my voice, and moves 
back to the head of the bed, visibly sulking.  "I just 
wanted to-"

"This isn't a peep show, Sam Sea-Ow!"

Vicki's latex-covered fingers probe deeply and 
painfully, sending flaming knives stabbing through my 
vaginal passage.

"Ow, ow, ow," I cry, my throat closing, and my eyes 
welling with tears.  Sam grabs my hand, and I 
instinctively squeeze to fight off the pain.

"I need you to relax, Donna," Vicki urges.  "The more 
tense you are, the more this going to hurt."

I suck in warm, calming air and concentrate on a spot 
on the ceiling, forcing myself to relax as Vicki 
probes inside of me.  After a moment she withdraws.

"When did labor begin?"

"My water broke at eight o'clock," I tell her, 
relaxing further now that the examination is complete.  
I glance up at the clock on the wall, surprised to 
note that it's already after midnight.  Four hours, I 
think.  Piece of cake.

"You're at three centimeters dilation and fifty 
percent effaced, which is within the normal range.  
Dr. Burgess requested I take your blood pressure."  
She snaps off the gloves and throws them into a bio-
waste can by the door.  

Moments later she pronounces my blood pressure within 
normal range and I sigh with relief.  Nothing to worry 
about there.

"You're doing just fine, Donna.  Pace yourself," she 
reminds.  "Conserve your energy, you're going to need 
everything you've got when hard labor begins.

Hard labor?  It gets harder?  I think I just heard 
myself whimper.

Vicki turns on the sink by the wall, passing her 
fingers beneath the stream of water waiting for it to 
heat up.  When the water is sufficiently warm, she 
reaches into an instrument drawer and withdraws a 
large red object - a bag, made of thick red rubber - 
an enema bag.

She fills the bag with warm water, adding medical 
soap.  When the bag is full she sets it down and 
retrieves a second pair of gloves.  "We like to get 
this done in the earliest phase of labor," she 
explains.  "It gives us plenty of time to flush out 
your system, so that there are no sanitation worries 
down the road."

"Done?" Sam asks.  "What needs to get done?"

"It's an enema bag, Sam.  What do you think she's 
going to with it?"

"I guess it's too much hope she's going to drop it out 
the window on unsuspecting passersby."

"I'm going to need you to roll over on your left side, 
Donna," Vicki says.

The expression on Sam's face is one mainly of panic, 
and the sound of his gulp fills the room.

"You can take five," I tell him.

He vaporizes from the room as though he's made of 
mist.


****

By 3:30 AM my contractions are coming five minutes 
apart, and believe me when I tell you that my colon 
has never been cleaner.

Since the enema, Dr. Bartlet has held this vigil with 
me, helping me back and forth to the toilet whenever 
necessary.  She's encouraged and cajoled, but most 
importantly she's spared me the horror of her own 
birthing experience.  I just don't think I could 
handle that right now.

The need to rush back and forth to the bathroom, or to 
set up camp there, has passed, so I think the worst is 
over.  The worst of that, anyway.

Nurse Vicki has urged me into bed and is placing a 
fetal monitor across my belly when there's a tapping 
at the door.

"Knock, knock," Sam pokes his head past the door.  "Is 
everyone decent?"

He steps into the room as Vicki explains the mechanics 
of the monitor and how it can warn me of oncoming 
contractions, and when the end is near so that I can 
concentrate on riding them out.

"Come in, Sam," Abbey answers.  "Do you come bearing 
news?"

"Have you talked to Josh?" I ask, getting to the heart 
of the matter.  

Vicki finishes with the monitor.  "I'll be back in 
half an hour to check your progress."

"I just got off the phone with him," Sam says.

"And?" I press.

"He's going crazy, much as I expected."

"I'm sure my husband isn't doing much to calm him 
down," Abbey points out.

"In fact, ma'am, I believe the President is doing his 
level best to push Josh over the edge.  He sounded 
like he was ready to parachute out of there."

"Josh is just stupid enough to do it," I chuckle, 
tiredly.

"He sends his love.  They're still another five hours 
out so he wonders if you can cross your legs and hold 
it for a few more hours.  I told him that as options 
go, I don't think that's one of them.  He also says 
he's sorry."

My uterus clamps down and there's rippling agony 
through my womb and birth canal.  My vision blurs and 
my mouth goes instantly dry, but I can still manage to 
spit out, "You can tell him he's certainly gonna be."

"Breathe, Donna," Sam reminds me, stepping forward to 
take my hand in his.  "In through your nose...."

I follow his instructions, panting out the air in 
quick bursts.  Beads of sweat form on my brow and Sam 
is quick to wipe them away.  He's watching the monitor 
waiting for the numbers to peak, and pressing my hand 
to match the pressure I'm applying to his.  "Hang on 
just a little while longer," he coaches.  "You can do 
this.  We're almost there, just a few more seconds."  

The monitor peaks, and the pains begin to subside, 
leaving me limp with exhaustion.  And this isn't even 
the hard stuff, I think.

"Cleansing breath," he takes a big, ridiculous breath 
to show me how it's done, and I follow his lead.

"Someone's been watching 'A Baby Story' on the sly," 
Dr. Bartlet chuckles pointedly at Sam.  And then, "I 
can see that Sam has this well in hand.  I'm going to 
step outside and call my husband.  I don't think I've 
chewed him out recently."

"That wasn't so bad," Sam says, after Abbey leaves the 
room.

"Great.  You try it sometime."

"I'm just trying to be encouraging."

"Little tip: with you being a man and me being woman, 
you'd better not try to rate a pain you can neither 
understand nor experience."  My voice is a wee bit 
angrier than I intended.

"Sorry," he replies submissively, and I can't help but 
feel sorry for unloading on him.

"No," I say, "I'm sorry.  I'm not angry with you, Sam.  
I just wish...."

"I know."

"I just wish he were here so I could be angry with 
him."

"Donna," he says, pulling up a chair to sit at my 
bedside, "I know I'm not Josh, and really do hope that 
the he's going to be here, but I would honored if you 
would consider me a...worthy substitute."

I consider his words, and the imploring in his eyes.  
I'm torn.  Torn because Josh is still hours away from 
DC and I want him to be here, but at the same time, I 
want this to be over as quickly as possible.  I don't 
want a substitute; I want my husband.  I want my 
baby's father to be here holding my hand.  I want Josh 
to be here so I can physically abuse him when the 
contractions hit.

But then, Sam doesn't have to be a substitute.  Not 
really.  Sam can just be Sam.

"You're not a substitute, Sam," I say slowly.  "I bet 
if we asked around we'd find out it's perfectly 
natural for a baby's godfather to be present in the 
delivery room."

He breaks out into a wide grin, his perfect white 
teeth practically blinding me. "Yeah," he breathes.  
"I bet we would."

He holds my hand through every contraction during the 
next hour, never once complaining of the pain I'm 
inflicting as I crush his fingers between mine.  He 
coaches me through each one, telling me how I strong I 
am, and how proud he is of me.  

This time the pain doesn't recede as quickly as the 
last, and I'm left breathing through the cramps before 
giving in to the need to scream.

"Awwwww!"  My head thrashes back on the pillow as the 
numbers on the monitor continue to rise.

"Screaming doesn't help.  Breathe," Sam instructs.

"Screw you!  Screaming helps!"

"I hear screaming," Vicki breezes into the room, 
snapping on her gloves for the dilation check.

"I told her screaming doesn't help."

"It really doesn't."

"Have you ever had children?" I grind out, directing 
my most deadly glare at the nurse.

"Not yet."

"Then shut up."

"That's just the pain talking, right?" Sam asks Vicki.

"Yeah, it's mostly just the pain."

"Oh, God, I think I want drugs!"  When will this 
contraction end?  Every muscle in my body has turned 
against me in a concerted effort to cause more pain 
than a human being can withstand. 

"Just hang in there," she says.  "Watch the monitor; 
it's peaking."

Sam urges me to breathe once more, and this time I 
comply, though I'm absolutely sure at this point it 
will do nothing to help.

"I need drugs," I demand again, once the pain trickles 
away.  My body is left feeling like I've been run over 
by truck.  Bruised and battered, and like it will 
never be the same again.  How can I possibly recover 
from this?

"Let's see where we are," nurse Vicki says, folding 
the sheet up over my knees and reaching between my 
thighs.  I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut as 
she probes me.  "I've got good news and bad news.  
It's too late for drugs, Donna.  The good news is that 
you're at five centimeters and I can call the doctor 
now."

"Great," I say, but my voice comes out lacking any 
sense of celebration.

"Keep up the good work," she smiles.  "You're half way 
there."

Half way?  Only half way?  

Kill me now.

"Oh, God!  I can't do this," I cry.  "I can't take 
much more of this."

"Yes, you can," Sam insists.

"You don't know," I pout, tears leaking from eyes.  
"You can't possibly...it hurts so much, Sam.  I can't 
do it.  It's going to kill me."

"No, it's not," he insists again.  "Listen to me, 
Donna.  Just take each contraction as it comes, okay?  
You can do that.  Don't think about the next one.  
Think about how tomorrow you're going to be holding a 
new life in your arms."

"I'm not strong enough."

"You are.  Donna, after everything you've been 
through...?  After the kidnapping, and the recovery?  
Through all of that you survived, and so did this 
baby.  This baby wants to be born.  She needs to be 
born."

His words filter through my brain, hazy with doubt.  
At first, I'm bolstered, thinking that he's right, and 
then, "Et tu, Brute?"

"Sorry," he shrugs, "I'm with Josh on this one."

"He told you the name, didn't he?  That's why you took 
his side," I accuse.

"Guilty."

"You know then?"

"I know."

"Tell me."

"Can't do it."

"You know when these contractions hit it's like I have 
super strength, right?  I can make you talk."  I grab 
his shirt and pull him toward me until our noses 
practically meet.

"I swore on the Constitution."

"Damn," I relent, releasing him back into the chair.  
There's no getting him to talk now.  Not if he swore 
on the most sacred of documents.

"And the Declaration of Independence."

"Double damn."

"Don't take it too hard.  It's just that all you've 
got is an instinct and six generations of history."

"That's not enough?  What does Josh have that I 
don't?"

"An epiphany and a heart's desire."

"What do you mean?  What epiphany?"

"Josh told you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Back when you talked about having kids, before you 
found out you were pregnant.  He stayed awake all 
night thinking about your discussion, and in the 
middle of the night he had a vision...an epiphany, he 
likes to call it.  He saw your daughter."

"My God," I say.  "Does he tell you everything?"

"Pretty much."

"Remind me to rip his nads off."

Sam cringes and rolls the chair farther away from the 
bed.  "Anyway...that's where it all comes from."

Another contraction slams into me, lasting for an 
eternity but Sam holds my hand and rides me through 
it.  I breathe as he instructs, my eyes boring into 
his as though he is the lifeline that keeps me from 
disappearing into this ocean of pain.

When the pain eases off I recall the night Sam spoke 
of and the explanations Josh made in regards to his 
sudden turnaround on the children issue.  "Wait," I 
pant heavily.  "I think I remember now.  He based the 
entire bet on that?  But that...I mean...he was 
exhausted...possibly delirious.  It was nothing," I 
say.

"Not to Josh.  To Josh it was a pretty big deal -- a 
defining moment, even.  He says his life was changed."

"But I thought -"

"And don't forget the part about his heart's desire."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"But why?  Why does he want a girl?  He doesn't know 
anything about girls."

"I don't know why," Sam admits.  "I don't think he 
even knows why, but I can tell you that he wants to 
learn."

"But...what about my little boy?"

"Tell me about him."

"He's intelligent, you know."

"I've no doubt he would be."

"He'll speak in complete sentences before he's two."

"With a collegiate vocabulary, I bet."

"Yeah.  He'll have curly hair and big brown eyes."
 
"Dimples, too?"

"Of course!"

"And an undiluted energy.  You'd have to strap him to 
the bed to get him to sleep at night."

"Well, nobody's perfect.  I wanted my boy."

"Did you pick out a name?"

"Yes, it's-Wait a minute, that's not fair!  I'll tell 
you mine if you tell me Josh's."

"Constitution," he reminds.  "The name doesn't have to 
go to waste, Donna.  There's always next time."

The timing couldn't have been worse, because the 
second the next contraction rips through me, I'm 
vowing there will be never be a next time.

"This is it, Sam," I sob.  "This is my one shot."

"Breathe," he coaches.  "I don't really think this is 
the time to make unilateral decisions about any future 
children."

"If this baby's not a boy, the Lyman name ends with 
Josh," I declare.  

God!  My pelvis is caught in vise, slowly succumbing 
to the pressing screws.  Except instead of clamping my 
hips together, the invisible instrument of torture is 
pulling them apart.  Every muscle is my body is 
shaking uncontrollably because I'm maxed to the limit.

"God, Sam!  I have to push.  I have to get this baby 
out of me."

"No!  No pushing!" he shouts.  He looks around 
helplessly, before releasing my hand.  "I'll get the 
nurse."

A heartbeat later he returns, but instead of Vicki, 
Dr. Burgess accompanies him.  "Mr. Seaborn says you 
need to push.  Quell the instinct, Donna, because 
there'll be no pushing until you reach ten 
centimeters."

Vicki enters the room, followed by another nurse.  
"Doctor?"

"But...it hurts...I have to-" I hear myself howling, 
ignoring the presence of the nurses.

"I know, Donna."  Dr. Burgess tosses back the sheets 
and peers between my legs.  "You're not even resenting 
yet."  She reaches between my thighs and announces, 
"But you are moving into transition.  You're at seven 
centimeters, and progressing quickly."  Turning to the 
nurses, she says, "She's at ninety percent."

Vicki's hands press into my belly just above my pubis.  
"Plus four station, Doctor."

"W-what does that mean?" I manage.

"It means it won't be long now," my doctor responds.  
"Sometime within the next two hours."

"Two hours!" I scream.

As if to prove my delivery is imminent, the nurses 
proceed to ready the baby warmer in the corner of the 
room, turning on the heat lamp and adjusting the 
sheets and blankets.  A rolling cart of delivery 
implements is readied and covered with a sterile 
drape.

Sylvia Burgess checks my chart, flipping through the 
pages.  "You're doing beautifully, Donna.  Your blood 
pressure remains within margin, and everything is 
progressing on coarse.  I know it's tough but hang in 
there.  Where's Josh?"

"He's not...he's on his way," I respond as Sam wipes 
the streaming perspiration from my forehead.

"Okay," she sighs.  "From here on out we're going to 
keep non-essential personnel out of the room.  No more 
visitors."

"What about Sam?" I ask, frantically.  "Sam can stay, 
right?  At least until Josh gets here?"  I'm still 
holding out hope that Josh will stumble through the 
door at any minute.

"Substitute coach?" she asks.

"And godfather," Sam happily chirps, proud of his new 
distinction.

"Very well then."

****

Two hours later, Sam's had to switch hands because 
I've squeezed the life out his other one.  My throat 
is raw from screaming, and moaning.  Sam's good hand 
digs into the muscles of my lower back, a deep tissue 
massage to ease the cramping there.

"Harder," I rasp.

He complies.  "Do you want some more ice?" he asks.  I 
nod, my eyes pinched closed against the pain.  The 
massage stops long enough for him to place to ice 
chips on my tongue.  The cold water trickling down my 
burning throat is a welcome respite worthy of 
celebration.

The phone on the bedside table rings and Sam answers 
without preliminaries, and offers a few 'yeahs' and 
'uh-huhs' before dropping the phone back on its 
cradle.

"How long?" I ask.

"They're on approach to Andrews."

Sylvia breezes into the room, and motions that I 
should roll over back onto my back.

"I can't get comfortable," I tell her.  There are no 
adjectives to explain the pain in my pelvis.

"That's normal," she replies.  "Let's have a look."

"You lied," I point out.  "You said two hours."

"It was just a guesstimate."

"They pay you for that?"

Stabbing pain tears at my vaginal muscles and suddenly 
the air is evacuated from the room.  I can't force 
myself to breathe and the air already in my lungs is 
burning for release.  "Uunnggghh," I groan.

The nurses gather around the doctor, whispering as 
they stare between my legs.

"What?" I ask.  "What is it?"

"Nothing to be frightened of, Donna," Burgess says.  
"We can see the baby."

"You can?"

"Yes, we're just having a bit of a complex 
presentation, that's all."

"Complex--?  What does that mean?"

"We've got a little hand waving at us."

"That's not right," I comment.  "I mean...that's not 
right, is it?"

"No, we need the baby to come out head first."

"Oh, God!  What's going to happen?" I squeak, flames 
trailing down my throat.

"Don't panic, Donna."

"Can you fix it?"

"I'm going to try," she replies.  "Most people forget 
that babies are born with reflexes intact.  I'm going 
to give that little hand a pinch and hopefully the 
baby will withdraw, like a turtle into its shell."

"Pinch?  You're going to pinch the baby?" Sam asks.

"Please let it work," I pray.

Sam bounces up and down and I wonder where he gets the 
energy. I can tell that more than anything, he wants 
to watch the good stuff.  I give up.  I suppose he's 
earned it.

"What the hell," I say.  "Look all you want." I wave 
him down to end of the bed.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," I groan, shifting my hips beneath me, "Before 
I change my mind."

He releases my hand, and moves to the end of the bed, 
beside Dr. Burgess who settles onto a rolling stool.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Just do it," I tell her, still praying that her 
gambit will work.

"I can see a hand, Donna," Sam gleefully cheers.

More stabbing pain, and I can feel the baby jerk 
inside of me.

"Like a turtle and its shell," confirms Sylvia.

"Turtle," I whisper, as the pain subsides to a dull 
but determined cramp.  "It worked?"

"Yes," she replies.  "Presentation is normal, and the 
head is crowning.  We'll start pushing with the next 
contraction, Donna.  We're in the home stretch."

What's all this 'we' stuff?

Sam's eyes are aglow with excitement and it only makes 
me want to cry because I want to see Josh's brown 
instead of Sam's blue.

"It just...." He begins.  "It just snapped right back 
inside."

"Did it look okay?" I think to ask.

"Five fingers," he answers. "I counted."

"Okay," Sylvia proclaims, "here we go.  Take a deep 
breath, and push for a count of ten.  Sam, she's going 
to need you up there."

Sam's hand beneath my shoulder blades lift me off the 
mattress as the new contraction hits.  Did I say I 
felt like a truck has hit me?  I meant 'train'.

"Deep breath, Donna," he says.  

I suck in as much air as my lungs will accept, holding 
it as the pain peaks.

"Push," Sylvia orders.

"One...two...three...four...." Sam counts all the way 
to ten as I bear down.  My fingers dig into my knees, 
holding my legs as wide apart as possible, as the pain 
cleaves me in two.

"Awwwwwww!" I give in as Sam reaches ten.  

"Relax, Donna.  That was a good push.  We'll have the 
head on the next one."

"I'm so tired," I inform them, collapsing back on the 
bed.  After catching my breath, I turn to Sam, "He's 
not going to make it, is he?"

"I'm sure they're on their way by now," Sam answers.

"Next contraction is coming," Sylvia warns.  Sam lifts 
me up again.

Trapped inside this never ending pain, the feel of 
Sam's hands on my back, and the others in the room, 
falls away.  It's just me here, pushing life out from 
between my legs.  It shreds me to pieces, and I am 
alone in this.  Even if Josh were here, I would still 
be alone.

It is as it's always been, I realize -- just me...and 
just them.  Separated by a gulf of pain, and the 
knowledge that they are not where I am.

In the end, their encouragement does nothing.  It's 
nice to hear the words, to know that others believe in 
me - believe I can withstand this torment.  But even 
without this room, and these people, I would still 
accomplish this, because that is what we do.

Women.  

We sweat and swear and scream new life into this 
world.  

We do it because something inside of us, something we 
can't completely understand, buried in our genetic 
code, tells us we must.  And for some reason, just 
beyond my grasp, women often do this more than once.  
Why?  I have yet to understand.  But, maybe when this 
over, I will know all their secrets.


When this is ended, I will be one of them -- a woman 
who's done her work and given her all.  I've bled and 
cried and carried this child, created from love, 
inside of me for nearly nine months.  Now is the time 
to greet it with open arms, in the knowledge that I 
have suffered the fires of hell to bring it into the 
world -- and to love it all the more for the pain it 
brought me.

I will never be more of a woman than I am right now.

Bolstered by this revelation I discover an unexpected 
reserve of strength.  Taking another breath, I resume 
bearing down, pushing past the pain and breaking 
through to new a sense of purpose and determination.  
Sam drones on, counting down numbers with no 
discernible meanings.  Voices cheer me on, but they've 
receded into the background, echoing with 
insignificance.  They are nothing; hollow promises 
that will not ease the hurt, or speed the process.

I feel the head pop from body, and a voice tells it is 
true.  Once more, it cheers.  A deep breath and a 
good, hard push.  My own pulse and the sound of my 
screams fill my ears as I obey their wishes and 
conform to their demands.  Not because it's what they 
wish, but because it's what I do.
  
A slippery, squirmy release and I'm free, the hewing 
pain easing into relief.  I drop back onto the 
mattress and let go of my legs, weeping with the 
liberation of it.

Suddenly, I'm not alone in this anymore because 
there's someone else in the room.  A baby's hearty cry 
fills the room, and my milk lets down in response, 
spreading across the front of my already damp gown.  
My breasts claim this child even before I can catch my 
breath to speak the words.

The screaming life, naked and bloody, covered in pasty 
goop is placed atop my belly.  My arms take hold 
purely by instinct, and suddenly I'm wondering where 
all the pain went.

"Congratulations, Donna.  Practically by the numbers," 
my doctor smiles.  "I told you there was nothing to 
worry about.  You did a great job."

"Thank you," I choke out, unable to tear my blurring 
vision from the naked bundle in my arms.

Another contraction, lighter this time, spills out the 
placenta, but this final rite of passage is beneath my 
full attention.  I am being cleaned and my legs 
straightened as I count fingers and toes and marvel at 
the brilliant perfection of my child.

I turn to Sam, one hand grabbing his shirt and pulling 
him close.  "I have to know," I tell him.  "This is 
bigger than your promise, Sam.  You have to tell me."

He opens his mouth to speak, but then shakes his head, 
"I can't."

"Sam," I warn, tightening my grip on his shirt.  I am 
as surprised as he that I have the strength left for 
manhandling.

"I can't," he reiterates.  "I can't take that away 
from him.  He wants to be the one to tell you.  This 
isn't about my promise anymore, Donna; it's about 
letting Josh have the one thing he's got left.  Can 
you understand that?"

"Yeah," I whisper, as I gaze upon my daughter, who has 
quieted in my arms, recovering from the exhausting 
business of being born.  "I understand."

Elliot Lyman will have to wait, I think.

"We have to take her now," Vicki dares to interrupt 
our bonding moment.  "We need to clean her and take 
her to nursery to be weighed and examined."  Vicki's 
hands reach out to take my baby away from me, and my 
heart lurches in my chest.

"No," I beg.  "Please?  Just a few more minutes?  You 
can't take her away from me now."

Vicki nods and steps away, figuring that a few more 
minutes won't hurt one way or another.  Dr. Burgess 
and the nurses gather in the corner of the room, and 
Sam clears his throat.

"I'm just going to...." He indicates the door, and 
stands up.

"Okay," I say.

Left alone with my daughter, I touch her hand, 
giggling when she grasps and clutches at my index 
finger.

"Hello there, I'm your mommy," I whisper.  "I bet I 
look different from the outside, huh?  In a minute 
they're going to take you away from me, but don't be 
scared because they'll bring you right back, okay?  I 
just wanted to tell you that...tell you that you're 
not what I expected, but that's okay.  Your daddy's 
gonna be so proud, though.  You'll meet him in a 
little bit, I promise.  He wanted to be here, but you 
were in such a rush to be born, he couldn't make it 
back in time.  That doesn't mean he doesn't love you.  
I swear he does, so don't be mad at him."

Vicki intrudes on our moment once again, and I place a 
kiss on my daughter's forehead, marking her as mine.

"Okay," I relent, handing her off to the nurse.

"We'll take good care of her," Vicki vows, walking her 
over to the baby warmer, where she's cleaned and 
wrapped in a blanket.

"She'll be hungry soon," the other nurse says, as she 
draws a blanket up over my body.  "We'll bring her 
back then."

"Can she stay in my room with me?" I plead, sheepishly 
feeling as though I've just asked 'can I keep her?'

The nurse nods, "After the doctor has had a chance to 
examine and observe her.  You must be tired, Donna.  
Why don't you get some rest?  Sleep for a little 
while, we'll wake you when she's ready for a feeding."

"Okay," I reply.  Almost instantly, my eyes and body 
respond to the word 'sleep', and suddenly I find that 
I can barely keep my eyes open.

I feel as though I've been pummeled to life.  There's 
not a part of my body that doesn't ache and yearn for 
rest.  And yet, I know all the secrets now.  I know 
why women go through this gauntlet time and time 
again.  

We do it because it's worth it.



The End